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And Hell Followed With Him - Part II
Someone whispered, and Dean cracked his eyes open just enough that the world came into focus. A girl popped her head into the room, saying something about, “She was turned.” Sam got up from his bed quietly, and he put on the shirt he'd used as a pillow. He followed her outside. He didn't look back at Dean.
Opening his eyes fully, the first thing Dean noticed was that grey shadows had replaced the blue ones. Instinctively, he knew it was early dawn. Everything had turned to quiet. The thunder was gone, and so was the muttering and mumbling. The only sound that Dean heard made him flinch and tremble. He thought it sounded like one of Lilith's torture devices, before he realised it was just the sound of rain lashing against the windows.
Otherwise, the world was silent. No sounds that suggested Hell's torture chambers were at work. Dean sat up. He winced at the sudden sting of agony piercing into his back, but he didn't wait until it ebbed away. Swinging his legs over the mattress, his bare feet touched the stone floor. It was cold, Dean could tell as much, but he'd forgotten whether that was a good or a bad thing. Pushing himself up, he rose to full height. His legs wavered under his weight, but they carried it nonetheless.
Dean stepped forward, feeling his way along the wall. Fingers trembling, he reached for the curtain and pulled it aside.
Most likely this was just another part of Hell. It was a one in a million chance that this was the world outside the pit. Either way, Dean had to find out what was going on and where he was at. His instincts urged him to not let Sam out of his sight. Following him wasn't even a conscious decision; it just happened. Sam had gone outside. Dean would go wherever Sam went. It couldn't have been any simpler.
Dean stopped as the curtain fell close behind him. His chest tightened. His pulse doubled. Dean took a deep breath.
He glanced back at the curtain, the safety that the tiny room behind it offered. So far, those quarters were all Dean had seen. That and dark skies and creatures stretching into the clouds.
His legs shook. He had no idea what was out here, or what would happen if he decided to leave the room.
But Sam was somewhere around here.
To the left, makeshift quarters after makeshift quarters formed a small aisle. Some walls were made of wood, others entirely of curtains, others were made of paper cardboard. All curtains and makeshift doors were closed. A weird sound sent waves of goose bumps across Dean’s skin, until he realised it was someone snoring. Here and there, an oil lamp or a candle shared some light. To the right, a few yards away, there was a huge entrance. One of the doors stood open. Behind it Dean spotted grey skies and rain pouring down. Sam must have gone there.
Dean moved on. Hair standing up on his neck, he placed one foot before the other. He felt like sleepwalking. His feet moved on their own.
He went outside.
Rain was pouring down on him, soaking his clothes and turning them into a heavy burden hanging from Dean's body. The rain fell onto his head and face, cooling his rashes and bruises. He hadn't felt rain that wasn't pure acid in a very, very long time. But the reek of sulphur remained.
There were hundreds of colourful hats and boxes all spread around the church. It seemed that not an inch of the ground beneath them was left. Some of the hats bent in the wind that ruffled Dean's hair. The boxes moaned under the last sighs of the storm. Here and there, a woman or man would hastily vanish inside a box or hat.
It was then Dean noticed it wasn't hats and boxes, but tents and tiny cabins, made of trash and planks and whatever had been useful to build a home. Some of them were bigger than others. A narrow, muddy path between them led down a slight slope. Dean's feet moved on.
They took him towards a bridge that wasn't more than six feet long and about as wide as a door. Actually, it quite looked like an old door that now served the bridge to get across the trench. The moat wound itself around the grounds of the church, as far as Dean could tell. Craning his neck, he spotted water.
He crossed the bridge. The wood creaked under his steps.
More tents and cabins spread out before him. It was like a village made of makeshift quarters. Dean frowned. What was so bad about houses? And towns? Why were the people all here?
A little to the right, Sam's tall figured popped up between the tents. Dean followed him.
His legs only lifted slowly, his bare feet sinking into the muddy ground. His toes needed some time to adjust until they were sure they'd found hold on the slippery ground beneath. Every time Dean lifted his legs, curled his toes or placed his feet, another shower of agony exploded in his body. He wanted to go faster, but he couldn't.
Eventually, the rows of tents opened into a wide field. The grass had been cut down. Black squares covered with iron bars were etched into the soil beneath. Like oversized manhole covers. It was weird. Really weird. Then Dean spotted Sam.
He and a small group of people stood around one of the black squares. They all looked down into the hole as if they were waiting. A girl with a blonde ponytail carried some sort of sword, while the others carried rifles. Dean's mouth twitched. He drew a little closer.
Suddenly, the blonde girl and another woman with short red hair heaved the cover up, and a woman with black hair to her shoulders climbed up.
A cell. It was a cell dug into the ground. Dean had spent months in those too, only the cells had been dug into raw flesh, into walls of skin and bone. There, the demons had executed him again day after day.
His stomach flopped upside down.
The rain kept lashing down, blurring Dean's vision. Water dripped from his hair onto his cheeks and nose. He didn't notice. His eyes were fixed on Sam.
The prisoner said something, and Sam shook his head. He towered above all members of the group. The prisoner spoke again, and Sam pushed her hard. She fell to the ground on her knees.
The blonde girl handed Sam the sword. He grabbed it easily, as if he was used to handling its weight and length.
The woman on her knees glanced up.
Sam raised the sword.
The woman said something.
The sword came down, a gruesome sound of flesh being cut hissed through the air. With a thud, the woman's head fell to the ground, her dead eyes staring directly at Dean. Her torso fell over into a puddle. Water splashed.
Sam wiped the blood from the blade, and he returned the sword back to the girl.
Dean stared. His insides cramped. His stomach revolted. He couldn't take his gaze off Sam and the dead woman.
It had to be Hell. A part of Hell in which Sam had turned into a cold-blooded hunter. It wasn't Sam. Couldn't be Sam, not his brother. Sam didn't kill like that, matter-of-fact like and without compassion. He didn't execute people.
Dean wanted to run, but he was frozen, like his feet were glued to the ground.
Of all parts of Hell that he had been to, this was the worst. Lilith really had saved the worst for last, just like she'd promised.
Then Sam noticed him. As he looked up from the dead body before him, his gaze brushed over Dean. Sam stiffened, straightened.
Dean just stared. His eyes burned. His mouth tasted bitter. His knees buckled.
The other members of the group spotted him too. The blonde girl instinctively reached for her rifle, but Sam stretched his arm before her, blocking her. He turned around, spoke to the others, and then began walking over to Dean. The rest stayed behind.
Sam shuffled his feet over the muddy ground, hands in his pockets. Like when he'd been younger and busted sneaking out of the house. Dean attempted to meet him on the way, but still his feet wouldn't move.
He couldn't understand. He didn't want to. His mind played the image of Sam beheading that woman on her knees over and over again. The blank expression on Sam's face. The way he'd casually cleaned the sword and returned to daily business.
A lump the size of a football blocked Dean's throat. When Sam finally reached him, Dean averted his eyes.
“You shouldn't be out here,” Sam greeted him. His tone was tense. A little awkward.
Dean stared at his bare feet. Apparently, Sam did too, because next thing Dean heard was the sound of Sam sucking in a breath sharply.
“Shit, man. You can't go outside with no shoes on. Your toes are gonna freeze off.”
Dean examined Sam's feet.
Shoes. He'd had a pair of those. Once upon a time.
“Are you even listening?”
Now Sam sounded annoyed. Worried, too. Dean glanced back at his feet. He wiggled his toes. Mud got stuck in the gap between the ball of his food and the curled toes. It hurt. Dean repeated the action.
“Dean.”
Silver blade. Blood splattered all across. The woman's still eyes staring at him. She was angry. Sam had killed her. Then he'd wiped the blade.
Dean had reached his final destination. He'd stay here. He'd have to watch Sam being not Sam for the rest of time and beyond.
The thought hit him so hard that his knees finally caved in. He sunk towards the ground, but Sam's arms caught him before he hit it. They pulled him to his feet.
Dean glanced at his feet. In most parts of Hell, he didn't need them. Feet.
“Shit, are you okay? Dean?”
Hell, and here he needed feet and Sam cut women's heads off.
“Fuck, man, look at me!”
Dean turned his head, inch by inch. He raised his chin to meet Sam's gaze. The lines on Sam's face formed an expression of utter terror. He was freaked. Dean wanted to avert his eyes again, but Sam didn't let him.
“I'll take you back inside, okay? We'll get you dried up. All right?”
Dean couldn't say yes or no. All he could do was look at Sam's face and hope that maybe, Hell still held a place even worse that Dean would, eventually, be taken to.
As Sam took Dean back to his quarters, the camp began to wake up. Women with baskets passed them by to fetch water from the catch basin or the water pump. Men crossed the bridge and then made for the back of the church to take a piss. Some women and men stood in front of their tents and huts, estimating the damage the storm had done. Some tents were ripped open at the sides or the roof; loose fabric fluttered in the breeze. Sam put his hand on Dean's back, and urged him forward. Many curious glances followed them, but the refugees were too busy doing morning chores to ask questions.
Dean walked slowly, like on autopilot. With his eyes fixed on the ground he took one step after another, not glancing up once. Sam felt Dean's muscles harden under his hand. He was tense and alert, but not responding.
Sam's chest tightened as he remembered the way Dean had looked at him out near the execution spot. Eyes wide, unbelieving. Horror-stricken. He'd stared at Sam like a madman. As if he'd witnessed an unspeakable crime.
It shouldn't have bothered Sam; after all, this guy here wasn't his brother. Just some trick to get him off his guard.
But it did bother him. That look. That horrified look, as if he'd spotted a monster, not Sam.
A hot flash of guilt rushed down his spine.
It couldn't be Dean. But the look was the same. If Dean had been here, watching him, he'd probably have looked just like that.
Talking and quiet laughter received them as they stepped into the church. Most people in here were now up and running about. The clanging of tin plates and cans was mixed with thuds of boxes and chairs being moved. Sam closed the curtain behind him and tied it to the wall.
“Sit down,” he said, nudging Dean into the direction of the bed. Dean obeyed silently. He eased down carefully, as if in great pain, but his face showed no emotion whatsoever. It reminded Sam of a mask. Dean kept his eyes on the ground. His hands were folded in his lap.
“Are you hungry?”
Dean—the man—remained in the same position, not even indication yes or no with a nod. Sam wondered whether he could hear him at all, but then again, he had followed Sam's order to sit down.
Sam glanced down at his hands, and then shoved them into his pockets. He cleared his throat. He tried to come up with something to say. But there wasn't anything.
He shifted his gaze to Dean again.
Shit, he looked so much like Dean. He looked exactly like Dean, underneath the burns and bruises, the infected cuts and welts around his wrists. More than that, he carried himself the same way. Sam recognised small gestures and brief facial expressions, all so perfectly Dean that it became constantly harder to remind himself that this wasn't, in fact, his brother.
But if this was a copy of Dean in Hell...shit, he didn't want to know what Dean was going through in Hell. For him. For Sammy. The amounts of pain and torture, for eternity.
Sam's stomach keeled over, and he brought a hand to his mouth, gagging.
“I'm going to get Bobby,” Sam said, turning around. Fresh air, he needed fresh air.
Dean didn't answer.
“Sam's got a lot on his plate,” It sounded like an apology, and it was accompanied by a shrug. Dean glanced up as Bobby pulled the chair closer to the bed.
Dean sat on the mattress, his back against the wall behind him. He'd pulled up his knees and wrapped his arms around them because it made him feel safer. Sitting like this shot bolts of agony through his body, as flashes of memories of being bound into little packages by burning ropes drifted back into his head. Dean squeezed his eyes shut. Months. It'd felt like months.
“Dean?” Worry.
Dean opened his eyes. Bobby was bent forward a little, kind of like he wasn't sure whether or not to reach out. Dean attempted to square his shoulders. He hissed through his teeth when that too did nothing but hurt.
“Sam told me you followed him outside this morning.”
Dean couldn't read the tone. He slid on the sheets, uneasy.
Bobby's gnarled hand brushed Dean's leg.
Dean flinched.
Bobby placed his hand on Dean's.
“You have no idea about what's going on, right?”
Dean's gaze flickered up. He looked at Bobby whose eyes were fixed on Dean. Dean hadn't noticed until now, but Bobby had grown old. Wrinkles and sharp edges shaped his face.
A muscle in Bobby's cheek twitched. He nodded.
“Thought so.” He sighed, took his cap off, scratched his forehead and put it back on. Dean tilted his head a little. He remembered Bobby doing that a lot. In the time before.
“Don't be mad at Sam, Dean. He's...things aren't easy for him.” Bobby paused, as if to brace himself for the things he had to say next. “Look, Dean. Four months after you died, Lilith broke the Devil's Gates and seals. All of them. She wanted to free Lucifer. A war came over the world where it was demons against humans and angels. The demons...they won. And they wiped out most of mankind. Storms and earthquakes wrecked the land. It was Hell on earth, Dean. It still is.” Bobby cleared his throat. “Lucifer needed a vessel. It was supposed to be Sam. He's got demon blood inside of him, Dean. That's why Azazel came to your house in 1983. Everybody expected Sam to cave. Hell, that bitch Ruby urged him to use his powers over and over again. Sam was tempted. Everyone could see it. She wanted to make it easier for Lucifer to claim him. But your brother—he fought. He stuck to the promise he gave you. He managed to kill Lucifer when Lucifer tried to possess him...that's right, your brother killed Lucifer. Lucifer was vulnerable in that moment. It almost killed Sam, too. I have no idea what would have happened if Lucifer would have won that battle. But Lilith was smart enough to keep out of Sam's way.
“She's reigning over the demons now. Vampires and werewolves and thousands of demons are everywhere. There are only very few humans left, Dean. And those that the demons don't use as vessels have gone into hiding. This is a refugee camp. The church grounds—it's hallowed ground. The moat that you've seen is filled with holy water. This is as safe as it gets. And your brother....he never wanted to be a leader, but after Lucifer, the people just began to gather around him. They treat him as their saviour. I'm fairly sure Sam hates it, but what is he supposed to do? Give up fighting?”
Bobby paused again, running a hand over his face. His eyes glistened suspiciously. He was an old man. Dean licked his lips and tried to arrange the words in his head so that they made sense. It wouldn't quite work.
“This here, Dean—this is it. There are only a few refugee camps, but we've only heard about them, so we don't know for sure other camps really exist. There are rumours that thousands of men and women have been taken underground as slaves but we don't know that for sure either. We are trying to hold our own, but people get attacked and ambushed, and the world is a mess. The sun hasn't come out in four years. Most of the food is rotten. Nothing will grow in the poisoned earth. I don't even know if there are still animals somewhere. We live on canned food. We are almost out on ammo and medicine. I don't know what's going to happen once our supplies come to an end.”
Dean stared at him wearily. He wished he could be back in that part of Hell where they cut him open and ripped out his insides over and over again.
“Lilith is smart. She knows she can't face Sam on her own, so she sends her troops. The demons. They ambush us and decimate our numbers. They try to wear our spirits down. They want us dead. This here is our last defence. Some of our spies have informed us that Lilith has found a way to share her power with the minor demons. They're all connected. And Lilith wants Sam dead at every cost.”
His voice was thick now, like he was choking down tears. Dean averted his eyes and glanced at his knees. Steps hurried past the curtains. Suddenly, the muttered conversations around him seemed deafening. Every thud of a footstep a thunder. A lump grew in his throat. Unconsciously, he shook his head.
His head was spinning. A headache throbbed against his temple, and Dean, who'd suffered through pain much worse, winced. The other pain, it was just physical stuff. His body hurting. He could endure all of it. But now, his mind began hurting too...
Dean wrapped his arms around his head, and rested his forehead on his knees. His shoulders started shaking. His whole body shivered.
Bobby cupped his hand around Dean's shoulder. Dean flinched back, but the hand remained where it was.
“Dean, stay with me.”
Dean lifted his head to meet Bobby's gaze, but he kept his arms over his head. Steps on the ground. It sounded like marching drums. Screams. They were screaming at him. Laughter. Demons laughing at him. Why, why couldn't he back in that part of Hell where it at least looked like Hell? At least there, Dean had always known what to expect. Pain. The kind of pain that shredded his heart and tore his flesh apart. Countless, endless rounds of torture, of being burned and buried alive, of being beaten and bitten, poisoned and choked. Voices, laughter, sneers. It'd been safe. The end of one torture just promised the beginning of another.This here...Dean had no idea what to expect, what to prepare for. Anything could happen. Anytime. He was naked and exposed to whatever decided to take its toll on him. It was the worst kind of Hell.
Suddenly, Bobby was sitting beside Dean. He didn't smell like motor oil like he used to. Dean told himself to stop, but his shoulders and legs continued to shiver violently. Very carefully, Bobby wrapped an arm around Dean's shoulders. Dean's heart slowed down. The laughter grew quieter. Everything eased to a less hectic pace.
“Dean, do you know why you're here?”
Dean turned his head. The question surprised him. He was here because he'd sold his soul and gone to Hell. He was here because She enjoyed to see him suffer. Dean hugged his legs again and rested his chin on his knees so that his face was half-hidden behind his arm. He shot Bobby a helpless glance. He didn't know the answer.
“Do you remember how you got out of Hell?”
Dean frowned. Out of Hell his ass. That's what they wanted him to believe.
Bobby sighed. He took off his cap again, placed it on the nightstand, and then he rubbed his forehead with his flat hand. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. He sounded tired as he spoke.
“Dean...do you know who I am?”
Dean lifted his chin a little and studied Bobby's face. The eyes that used to twinkle, the beard that had scratched Dean's face as a kid when Bobby had hugged him. The same lines, only deeper.
Slowly, Dean nodded yes.
It was like a wave of bright light washed over Bobby's face. His features softened, and his lips broke into a wide smile.
Dean couldn't remember the last time someone had smiled at him. He only recalled sneers and howling laughter. His heart leapt.
“And you remember Sam?”
Again, Dean nodded slowly.
“So, no need to be scared, Dean. We're both around. We won't let anything happen to you.”
Dean would have laughed if he'd recalled how. Instead, he just stared at Bobby, his mind empty of thoughts. The right thing would have been to nod, but Dean couldn't bring himself to. He wanted to believe Bobby...wanted to believe him more than anything else. But experience had taught him too well. There existed no place that was both safe and free of pain.
Except perhaps the world outside. The world that was not Hell. But this couldn't be it. She'd promised him he'd stay in Hellfire until the end of all time. She never broke her promises.
Bobby patted his shoulder. “Just don't wander off, all right? Stay inside the church. You might get lost outside.”
Pain rushed through Dean's body as Bobby touched his shoulder. Dean took a deep breath and released it slowly. Pain he could handle. Pain was good. Pain was the constant that everything else revolved around. For as long as the pain remained, everything was fine.
He'd stood and watched from the distance as Dean Winchester dragged himself outside and across the small bridge. As he followed his brother even though he couldn't see him, like Sam's presence was enough to draw Dean to him.
He'd watched as Dean Winchester witnessed the execution of a camp member that had been turned into a vampire. Dean Winchester, who'd feared no evil and slew demon after demon, stared at the scenery before him as if he could not understand. Hell had broken him.
It had been Castiel's order to save Dean Winchester from Hell. But he'd failed.
He'd waited too long. Just a day too long. A day that had decided the world's fate.
His brothers, as far as he knew, were dead. He couldn't hear them speak. Maybe they were hiding. Most likely Lilith's servants had killed them.
Castiel gazed at the big wooden cross. The altar and tabernacle were gone to make room and to serve as firewood, but the cross had remained. Maybe as a beacon of hope, Castiel mused. The church served as the resistance head quarters because it was situated on hallowed ground that only very few demons—only the most powerful--could pass. The cross rose up above the refugees' heads as a warning to the demons.
Castiel closed his eyes. He couldn't linger here for too long. It would raise suspicion amongst the humans.
No doubt the demons had their spies. To think otherwise would have been foolish. Rumours spread fast. As soon as someone found out about what he really was, the news would travel from man to man, woman to woman. The demons would demand his head, and the people would be eager to turn him over. They could not risk harbouring an angel. It would have instantly ended the relative quiet that had blessed the refugees for the past few weeks.
With one last glance, Castiel averted his eyes. If only he'd been faster, if only he had not waited. The world had fallen into the hands of evil on his account.
He was too young to carry the weight, and his youth had caused foolish decisions. He wasn't yet as wise or strong as Uriel, who'd seen the Lord and knew so much more than Castiel did. But Uriel too was dead.
Castiel had survived because he was a coward and had spent the past four years pretending to be a human. He wasn't even worth pretending to be one of them. He couldn't ever possibly share friendship and love. He couldn't offer words of support and be a comfort to others. He didn't know how to.
He pretended. Someday, the humans would find out. His days were numbered. Castiel just did not know the number of days left.
Sam was counting bullets when Bobby entered the armoury. He stood by the shelves, his fingers brushing the contents of small boxes and his lips moving as he counted. He furrowed his brows, sighed and scribbled down a number on a block of paper.
His posture didn't change as Bobby entered, but Bobby knew Sam had noticed him nonetheless.
“How are we doing on ammo?” Bobby asked.
Sam shrugged and rubbed his temple. “We've done better.”
“We always do, I suppose.”
Sam nodded. “Yeah.”
Bobby stepped closer. The room smelled of gunpowder, copper, and paint. Every last inch of the room was covered in protective symbols. Thick salt lines were spread before the barricaded windows.
Shelf after shelf lined the wall, building a labyrinth of weapons, crossbows, bandages and medication. Bobby hated this room. It stood for everything that went fucking wrong in this world.
“You should talk to him.”
Sam didn't stop counting. “Who?”
“Your brother.”
Sam released a short, bitter laugh. “He's not my brother.”
“You don't know that.”
“Yeah, I do.” Drumming on the paper block with his pen, Sam turned his head to face Bobby. “No way this is Dean. Something's going on, and we need to find out what.”
“He's terrified, Sam.”
“It's an act.”
“Sam,” Bobby spoke slowly, deliberately. “He's terrified. He's lost. Whether or not this is your brother, the guy is scared and confused. He needs a friend.”
“Send Layla to talk to him, then.” Sam sounded like a petulant five-year old. Bobby knew the tone.
“Dammit, Sam,” he barked, grabbing Sam by the shoulders. His thumbs pressed into Sam's flesh. Sam's eyes widened in surprise.
“Dammit Sam.” Bobby shook Sam's arm. He realised how he sounded more defeated this time. “Give this guy a chance. Talk to him. How are you going to find out what's going on if you refuse to spend more than five minutes in the same room with him?”
Sam opened his eyes to reply, but he seemed to have forgotten what he'd meant to say. He closed his mouth, shifted his gaze to the floor and nodded. “All right.”
Bobby turned to leave.
“Bobby.”
Christ, the tone. The tone reserved for the rare moments when Sam let his guard off and became the lost orphan who missed his brother more than he could put into words.
Bobby closed his eyes briefly, before he turned around. Sam was glancing up at him shyly, eyes glistening and wide, biting his lip. He looked so much like a scared little boy that Bobby had to fight the urge to just pull the kid into a hug.
“Bobby, if it should be Dean...you know what that means, right?”
Bobby didn't answer, the silence prompting Sam to continue.
“If it is Dean, then that means he's fighting on Lilith's side. She wouldn't have let him go out of the goodness of her heart. If it is Dean, then he's a traitor.”
He paused to let the words sink in. They filled the room with a threat. Traitors were executed. Bobby licked his lips.
“You don't know that, Sam.”
“In that case, I can't let him go unpunished just because he's my brother.” Sam's mouth formed a thin line. Bobby could see Sam was chewing on the insides of his cheek so he wouldn't cry.
“Sam.” Bobby scratched the back of his head. “We don't know anything yet. You said so yourself. Maybe if you talked to him...he's scared, Sam. He's been through four years of Hell. I'm not even sure he has realised he's not in Hell anymore.”
Sam tilted his head back and released a deep sigh. His lower lip wobbled.
“It can't be Dean.”
“You're the only person who can find out.” Bobby let his eyes drift to the ceiling. A devil's trap stretched from the door to the sealed windows. Shit. He was an old man, he'd had a life before. But Sam...the kid wasn't meant to live like this. Wasn't meant to make decisions like that.
When Sam looked back at Bobby, the moment was gone and Sam's face had found its all too familiar emotionless mask again. He nodded and muttered something about finishing doing inventory first.
Dean wasn't the only one scared shitless, and Sam wasn't any better at hiding it.
She took his hand and put a white cotton cloth around his palm. The rough fabric rubbed against his sore flesh. Dean flinched and jerked his hand back. Layla curled her fingers around his wrist and with gentle force pulled his hand back.
“I'm sorry if it hurts,” she said. Her voice embraced Dean like a cloak of warmth. “But it's going to infect if we don't treat it.”
She tightened the bandage, and Dean winced.
She'd explained to him that they couldn't take care of all injuries, as bandages and disinfectants were rare. She'd washed his wounds, on his back and on his arms and legs, and Dean had shivered and trembled under every touch. All touches that he knew inflicted pain. Layla was trying to ease the pain. In his head it made sense, but not in his heart.
The bandage looked as if it had been used before and cleaned afterwards. Dean stared at his hand and wondered how often Layla had already used it to patch up hurt soldiers. Judging by how skilfully she wrapped the cotton around Dean's hand, it must have been many times.
Oddly, now that most of his cuts and rashes had been treated—even if only cleaned—the pain hadn’t faded away, but instead had turned into a violent throbbing that tormented every fibre of Dean's body. He shifted on the mattress and grimaced.
“It's gonna get better,” Layla said softly. “I promise.”
Dean glanced at her. The short hair made her look different than back in...where had it been? He frowned. He vaguely remembered Sam dragging his ass to see that fake healer. Nebraska. In Nebraska. But she'd been terminally ill back then, a tumour eating into her brain. She couldn't be alive.
So, was this the trick? The giveaway. Maybe Lilith had filled this part of Hell with people who were actually dead. Maybe this Hell worked that way or maybe She wanted to make it more painful for him when She finally tore him away from here.
Layla must have recognised the expression on his face. She smiled shyly. “I know what you think. The tumour, right?”
Dean's gaze flickered to the ground briefly before it met Layla's eyes again. “I couldn't make sense of it at first,” she continued, while putting another bandage around a particularly deep cut on Dean's arm. The fringe had been yellow with puss, but Layla had washed it clean with warm water. “Roy LeGrange couldn't help me, right? The tumour didn't go away, I wasn't healed. You were there. But the next time I went to see the doctor, he told me that the tumour had miraculously shrunk in size, making it operable. So, in the end, I was healed after all.”
Dean's eyebrows shot upwards.
She gave him a half amused, half grateful smile. “Sam explained it to me. He told me what you did that night, how the Reaper almost killed you so I could live. Sam thinks that maybe, before he stopped Sue-Ann, the Reaper transferred some of your life essence to me. I mean, I did feel that something happened, I just didn't feel healed. But it makes sense, doesn't it?” She paused, averted her eyes and lowered her voice. “You saved my life. Thank you for that.”
Dean didn't know what to think. It sounded too perfect. It sounded like a trick. As soon as he started to believe this crap, Lilith would send him back to the fire pits.
Dean licked his scabbed lips. His head was buzzing. Of all the people he knew he would never have expected to see Layla again. He'd thought about her often after Nebraska and wondered if she'd found her miracle. Shit, he'd hoped that she had. And now she was sitting here, and tending to his bruises, and telling him that he’d saved her. No, it couldn't be real. Somewhere beneath the surface, Hell was lurking. Like the stage of a theatre ready to break. The planks were already creaking under his weight.
She fell silent, as she used her last bandage to cover a nasty cut that Dean had received when he'd followed Sam outside. He must have stepped onto a stone, Layla had said. Dean hadn't even noticed the fresh pain, and nobody had cared to look closer at his feet. Layla had noticed the smeared blood on the ground and the dry, black layer on the ball of Dean’s food.
Her fingers on his feet tickled. Dean's toes twitched. As she continued to adjust the bandage and her fingers ran lightly across his foot, Dean burst into a short laugh.
It rang in his ears loudly. An odd sound that Dean hadn't heard in a while. The walls threw it back at him. Instinctively, Dean jerked back and pressed his lips together. Layla looked up and her mouth opened a little before it formed a smile.
“So, you're ticklish, huh?”
Dean heard the affection in her voice. Like she was worried for him and relieved at the same time. He remembered Mom's voice sounding like that when he was little. He remembered Bobby using that tone too. Layla tried to take care of him. That part Dean understood.
It didn't quite feel like Hell.
Hell was real in more ways than Dean had words to describe. The pain was sharper, amplified, and unlike pain on earth could ever be. The mind didn't pass out, the body did not exhaust, and souls were awake all the time, through everything. The illusions were always a little blurry around the edges though, a little off. Dean had become good at noticing these things; he could tell when he was wrapped in an illusion. Something always tipped him off. This time he couldn't find anything, and he kept looking hard. Sure this world was strange and more horrible than Hell could ever be, but it didn't feel like an illusion.
Either Lilith had gotten way better at creating her illusions or...
Dean's squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lips. No, he mustn't think that. As soon as he did, She'd have won.
“All your injuries,” Layla suddenly said, and Dean heard the effort in her voice to sound as casual as possible about it. “They will take time to heal. You should probably stay here and get a lot of rest. There's nothing you can do out there anyway. Your brother is a good leader, Dean. He tries so hard to keep us safe. If it weren't for him, we'd all be dead by now.”
And would that really be so bad, Dean thought. Would it be so bad to die if the only alternative was this life right here?
The people kept suspiciously near to Sam's quarters, but no one dared to peek inside. They were probably afraid that Dean would tell Sam, and if Sam got wind of people ignoring his orders, he'd get really pissed. Everybody was afraid of getting kicked out of the camp, and everybody knew Sam had no use for people who disobeyed orders and brought danger to the camp. A group of men was gathered just across the entrance to Sam's room, chatting and muttering while predictably trying to catch a glimpse inside as Sam pulled the curtain back and slipped through. He put himself between the men and his quarters, shot the men an angry glare—at which they hastily turned their faces away—and tied the curtain shut. Then he whipped around and almost stumbled over Dean.
The man who might be his brother was curled up on the stone floor. He'd placed the blankets Sam had used the other night on Sam's bed, and he was using an old flannel shirt that Sam recognised to be Bobby's as a blanket. Sam noticed a few bandages, one around Dean's palm and one around his arm. All his wounds seemed to have been cleaned. Without the dirt smeared across his face, the injuries only stood out more. Like red paint in a black and white drawing. But without the dirt, he also looked the most like Dean ever since Bobby had picked him up outside of camp. The chin pointier, the cheeks hollow. All features appeared so much like Dean that Sam quickly had to remind himself to be on his guard.
Still, the sight of the broken man on the stone floor made Sam's stomach cramp. It was exactly what Dean would have done. Taking the floor so that Sam could have the bed.
Sam moved forward and around the sleeping man, and then eased on the bed slowly. The mattress creaked as it sagged under Sam's weight, and Dean frowned. His breath was coming in shallow, hectic rasps. Muscles in his face twitched.
His hand, the bandaged hand that had to hurt like a bitch, curled to a fist until the knuckles went white. It was no peaceful slumber, that much Sam could tell.
“Hey.” Sam gently nudged Dean with his foot. Dean blinked, then jerked away and rolled over on his side. His eyes wide and his face clammy with sweat, he stared at Sam like a wild animal ready to defend itself, breathing heavily. There was madness in his face. Deep, uncontrollable madness. For a moment, Sam thought Dean didn't recognise him. Then Dean's features relaxed, and he formed an expression of confusion and exhaustion.
“Bad dream?” Sam asked.
Dean didn't reply. Very slowly, almost as if he wasn't quite sure it was the right thing to do, he sat up. His baggy socks slid a bit down as he did, and Sam caught glimpse of more bandages. Inwardly, Sam shook his head. How this guy was still running around and not going completely insane with pain was beyond him.
“Why didn't you use the bed?”
Dean averted his eyes, firmly focusing on Sam's feet, and shrugged. At least that was some kind of response.
“You can have it until you're feeling better or we find another place for you to stay.”
Dean glanced up, and his lip twitched. Sam couldn't say whether it was supposed to be an “okay” or a “whatever” or whether it didn't mean anything at all. It kind of felt like when Sam had been younger and he spent hours watching Dean closely and trying to learn what each gesture, each brief glance, had meant. He'd studied Dean for so long until he knew how to read him like nobody else did. Then four years apart had turned that knowledge into a big fat nothing, and Sam had had to start anew. He had never quite gotten his drive back.
“Did Layla tend to your injuries?”
Apparently, after four years of Hell on earth, Sam had completely forgotten how to make conversation as well.
Dean looked at him for a moment then hinted at a nod.
It seemed obvious that he didn’t' trust Sam. He didn’t seem to trust any of this. Well, that made two of them. Sam slid down on the ground, leaning against the frame of his bed. Dean skid backwards a bit. Every remaining muscle in his body was tense. He didn't take his eyes off Sam once.
He was wearing a flannel shirt different from the one he'd used as a blanket, but it too must've been Bobby's. It fell around Dean's body in big folds, softly wrapping around shoulder blades that protruded underneath the fabric and thin arms that looked like they couldn't belong to a grown man. Sam looked at Dean and his stomach flipped, which hadn't happened in a while.
No matter what the demons did to refugees, how badly they mutilated corpses and tortured women and children, Sam had seen it all. Even though it made him angry and he felt sympathy for the victims, he hadn't been truly shocked like this in a long while.
Maybe because the guy looked so much like Dean. Maybe because even with his body broken to Hell, he refused to let on anything about the agony he must be in.
Maybe it just felt so much like this was Dean sitting in front of him. But it couldn't be him. Sam had to prove it. Though, that wasn't going to be easy. As far as he could tell, the guy hadn't said a word since he'd gotten here.
Sam tapped his feet as if he was listening to a song. As if he could hear music somewhere. Music. He couldn't really remember music. Couldn't recall a single song he'd heard at Stanford or with Jess or on the radio studying. He couldn't recall a single video from MTV or the cover of any album he'd ever owned. The tunes Dean had played to him in the Impala came back to him though. Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin, Metallica. Like true friends, they'd lasted through time.
“I don't know about you,” Sam suddenly said, “But I could really listen to some Led Zeppelin now. That album you used to play...Physical Graffiti? That one. I always liked that one. I never told you, but I thought it was brilliant. I just thought that if I ever told you, you'd stop playing it and torture me with something else. I--”
The words caught up in his mouth when Sam realised what he was doing. Shit, he was talking to this guy like it was really Dean. He couldn't do that. It was what Lilith probably wanted, what she'd sent the guy here for.
Sam cleared his throat. Dean was staring at him with a curious expression on his face, lines as deep as the Grand Canyon furrowing his forehead.
Well, if he wanted him to talk, Sam would have to play along for a while. As long as he didn't forget that this wasn't Dean, there would be no harm in it.
“Do you remember how you got out?” Sam asked. He forced himself to sound casual and ended up asking the question as if he was enquiring how the trip to the outhouse had been. Dean glanced at him, tilting his head as if to estimate whether there was any harm in telling Sam. Then, he shook his head.
“Do you remember anything else?”
Dean's face froze. His eyes adapted the size of Lake Michigan before the drought. His shoulders began to tremble. He pulled up his knees, wrapped his arms around them, hid his head behind his arms and made a pathetic sound.
Shit. Shit. What a fucking stupid question.
“I'm—I'm sorry, Dean...,” Sam muttered, feeling that words probably weren't going to help much. Shit, fuck, crap. Way to go, Sam.
He didn't know what to do, didn't know how to help this man sitting just across the floor, shaking as if the apocalypse was upon them again. Sam’s feet itched to run to Bobby or Layla and ask for help. He couldn't do this. He couldn't do the talk thing anymore. Times had changed. He had changed.
In the end, he decided that running out and getting Bobby now would have attracted too many curious eyes. So Sam slowly moved over until he sat next to Dean. He picked up the flannel that Dean had used as a blanket and wrapped it around Dean's shoulders. Dean looked up, surprised.
For a while, Sam didn't speak. Dean was slowly calming down, the tremors fading away until he sat next to Sam completely unmoving. He stared ahead, like there was something on the wall Sam couldn't see.
“Ellen's dead.” The words came on their own; Sam just moved his lips. Beside him, Dean winced, but Sam could tell he was listening. “So is Jo. So is Rufus. The demons went after the hunters first, and they almost got all of them. Lucas and Andrea were here for a while—you remember them? She was badly hurt, and she didn't make it. Lucas...he just stopped everything after that, not just speaking. He faded away. He died two years ago. The flu got him.” Sam paused, and ran his hand over his eyes. Fuck, he was so tired. He just wanted to close his eyes and not wake up again. He was so sick of this, of fighting and losing over and over again. If it hadn't been for the people here, he would have put a gun to his mouth and pulled the trigger long ago.
“I've heard a rumour that Joshua's still alive, so that's something I guess. Layla you've seen. She made it. I can't believe it. Michael's alive, you've met him too. Asher's dead. Michael never quite got over that. We don't know where their mother is, so for now we assume she's dead too.”
Sam tilted his head back and bit his lip. A headache the size of China was punching him against the temple. Sam released a sigh. Now this. He needed a break. Shit, they all needed a break.
Suddenly, very small and very rough like it hadn't been properly used in an eternity, a voice piped up beside him. “Ben?”
The word was stretched and awkward, as if Dean had forgotten what it was like to speak.
Sam's heart skipped a beat at the sound. He didn't dare to turn his head to face Dean, afraid of what he might find. Of all the things Dean might have asked, Sam was not prepared to hear this. Sam had expected this man who had to be a fraud to sneak in questions about the camp, about defences and patrol rounds. Not to fall into a complete Dean moment and ask about Ben.
Sam quickly cleared his throat. “He's here. In camp. He shares his tent with an older woman and a girl around Michael's age. Lisa's...she didn't make it.” Dean just nodded and kept silent. Because it felt the right thing to say, Sam added, “I'm sorry.”
Another brief shake of the head. He spoke so very little. Dean or not Dean, the quiet that seemed to wrap this man up made Sam uneasy. It didn't fit here, in the camp where people lived in chaos, and talking and chatting were the only things that brought a hint of normalcy into their lives. A weak imitation of what once had been. Sometimes Sam thought that the people had never talked as much as they did now—there wasn't much else to do really. Chatting helped in repressing just how many of them had been lost in the war; it took their minds off the loneliness for a while. The danger wasn't any less present, but at least they could share their fear.
Sam released another sigh and stared at his boots. Sam had taken them off a dead man a year ago. Even though he tried to be careful and not wear them out too much, they were already coming undone. He'd have to try and get new ones eventually. A hot wave of guilt rushed down his spine. He'd have to take them off another man's feet again. He'd done it twice before, and in all practicability he'd not hesitated, had never felt bad about it. Times were hard, and there was no room for shame or pride. But right now, sitting in this man's presence who was so much like Dean, Sam suddenly averted his eyes. Sometimes he had stopped to think what had become of himself, and what he saw usually frightened him so much he quickly dropped the matter.
“Do you...,” Sam's voice trailed off, the words suddenly gone. He fumbled for them like feeling for his way in complete darkness. “Do you...I don't know, need anything?”
Dean hesitated a moment, then shook his head. He stretched his legs and pushed his shoulders back. He hissed briefly at the movement, the only indication that every time Dean did as much as twitch a muscle another shot of agony hit him.
“You should rest. On the bed. You shouldn't be lying on the stone floor where it's cold and hard, I mean, you really need time to heal and...”
Sam's words froze in his mouth. Shit, Winchester, this wasn't Dean. This was some guy that Lilith had sent to spy on them--or worse. And yes, he looked like he'd been someone’s chewing toy down in Hell, and it was okay to feel sympathy. Who knew what Lilith had threatened to do to him if he didn't cooperate. But it wasn't Dean, so there was no need for that overprotective crap. He mustn't forget that this wasn't his brother.
But...
Sam lifted his chin to look at him. He wished that it was really him. So much that he felt like his chest was going to burst into a million tiny pieces. So much that walking back to his quarters he'd considered, just for a moment, to throw all care aside and willingly walk into Lilith's trap. To shove all doubts away and believe, actually believe that the guy here was his brother. There was nothing he wanted more.
There was nothing he wanted less.
Part of him didn't want Dean to see him like this. A soldier with blood on his hands, whose only talent was killing and warfare. Part of him would have willingly given his own life if it had meant that Dean wouldn’t have struck a deal with Lilith to be released from Hell.
It was a selfish thought. He didn't want his memories of Dean be spoiled by the taste of treason. Didn’t want the memories tainted by the knowledge that in the end, his hero brother had broken under the fires of Hell and struck a deal with evil. Sam couldn't have blamed Dean. But he treasured his memories like nothing else. If the war managed to taint them, then there was truly nothing left for Sam. And somehow, he knew that Dean would have understood.
So, it had to be a trick.
But the doubts kept bouncing back at Sam, whispering that maybe it really was Dean, and every time they did, they broke a brick off that wall that Sam had drawn around him.
There was Dean’s fear, for one. A kind of fear that constantly bordered at panic. There was no way you could learn to act that way. Sam had met all sorts of con men in his life. Heck, he was one of them. And what he saw in Dean's eyes, the fright and the confusion and the faint hope that flickered up every now and then, that was beyond acting. That was true.
Too, there was also the way Dean—the Dean he'd known—tended to surface every once in a while. Sometimes it was a glance or a movement of the hand, a frown at something Sam said that Dean too would have frowned at. So many tiny things that made it incredibly hard to stick to the idea that it wasn't Dean. Couldn't be him.
“If you...you know, need more pain killers or anything...” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. Beside him, Dean shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I can't promise you, because we're really short on the stuff but you probably really need the pills so just...tell me.”
Great. Could you be more awkward, Sam? He used to be better with words. Used to be better at this. There'd been a time when he'd always known what to say.
Dean seemed to consider the offer for a moment, before he shook his head. Sam pursed his lips. His mind was empty. He couldn't come up with anything to say. He didn't know how to find out whether this Dean was real or not. He had no idea what Bobby wanted him to do.
After a while, after they'd sat side by side for maybe an hour or so, Sam could feel himself calming down. The noises from the church and camp, the thuds and clangs, the chattering and yelling faded away, and stillness unfurled around Sam. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. For a moment, he even forgot that the apocalypse had turned the world into a place of rotting darkness, and it almost felt like he was back to sharing a motel room with his brother, drinking beer and watching football games on a dusted black and white television set.
Maybe...maybe he could try and trust this Dean just a little. Not all the way. But maybe he could at least think about the possibility that his brother had returned from Hell. A lump grew in Sam's throat. If it was Dean...and the way he looked...shit.
“So...” Sam said quietly. Beside him, Dean jerked at the sudden sound. “You...you want me to believe you're my brother, huh?”
It came out more uncertain, weaker than Sam had intended. Like he needed Dean to tell him what he was supposed to do. Well actually, that wasn't quite so far from the truth.
Dean turned his head to look at him. His eyes shone bright green, almost feverish.
“I...don't know,” he croaked.
Another patrol returned to camp with more people dead than alive. Those that still could talk and walk muttered something about an ambush. A group of demons had attacked them while they'd been checking one of the deserted towns for more refugees. Of the three hunters that made it back home, one died in the night that followed.
“It was like they were waiting for us. They knew that we were coming,” Georgia wheezed before she coughed up blood. Beside her, Michael rubbed her back and whispered something that Sam couldn’t catch but sounded comforting all the same.
Angela raised her eyebrow at Sam, and he knew what she was saying. There was a mole in camp. He also knew who she was suspecting.
Sam's stomach tied into a million tiny knots.
Part III
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Had to pause to say:
"Somewhere beneath the surface, Hell was lurking. Like the stage of a theatre ready to break. The planks were already creaking under his weight."
Gorgeous.
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